God Given Solace
by BlueSuitHarold
Summary: Draco comes into his Veela heritage and must attempt to survive through all the trials that entails. HGDM not your conventional Veela fic.
1. Weaker than it found us

It is said that every family has skeletons lurking in their cupboards. Past shames are locked away in the hope that one day the bones of their fears will turn to dust. They long for the day their transgressions will no longer plague the family's honor, reputation, and existence. Sometimes these secrets do dwindle down to nonexistence. However, until they do; they put enormous pressure on the family, threatening to tear it apart. In most cases, the aristocrats of the world often seem to think that the risk of corroding the core of the family is worth the luxury of silence. And although the wise will preach on the pitfalls of depending on assumptions, it is traditionally presumed that the more prominent the family is, the more lurid their secrets.

There were few families in Great Britain that could exceed the Malfoys in influence, wealth, or legacy. All the houses of Hogwarts would swear that one could fill the dungeons of their manor twice over with the quintessential familial skeletons and still need more space to hide the rest. Depending on the house these individuals might mean their words figuratively or literally. Of course, this is a gross exaggeration, but one the Malfoys don't exactly try to discourage. It fueled people's fear and pre-emptively ended any desire they might have to cross a Malfoy. However, in truth there were actually very few incidents that the Malfoys would rather people be oblivious to. They were a proud family and felt no shame in honoring their glorious history.

Nonetheless, there was one secret to top them all—one the Malfoys would die before exposing. It was an ancient secret so old that it seemed even to them more like lore than an actual event. It was heavily guarded by faint disbelief and family tradition; father passed down tale of it to son, and it was thereafter never to be mentioned again. It was a private myth too costly for anyone to know, so no other path for protection was available, or so the Malfoys of each generation told themselves.

Sometimes families must face their dark secrets head on regardless of great the desire to discount them. The Malfoys were fully aware of that fact. But never did the Malfoys believe that they would see the day where this particular legend would become their stark reality.

It was an unusually hot, muggy June night in the country side of Wiltshire. The air felt so thick that it could have hidden the elegantly foreboding fortress from the world like a velour curtain without the use of any wards or spells. It was a night so hot, that even the thought of moving was too stifling to bear. The only avenue of escape was to lie dormant and pant, like an undignified krupp.

It was a small consolation to the inhabitants of that place that the heat was to be the only kind of danger the manor would have cause to face that night. As it should have been, for the family had taken great care to protect it. Only those magically inclined and in good favor with residents of the magnificent manor could locate it. It had been that way since before all who lived there could even fathom, but recently security had been tighter still. There was no denying that these days had been dark ones in the wizarding world—even darker times for the family who called this manor home.

In a dim, luxurious chamber in the west wing of this dismally humid scene laid a restless young man. The room screamed privilege. The grand furniture was of the richest mahogany, carved in a timelessly streamline fashion. Every curtain and pillow had been crafted with the most lavish of black fabrics. The stone floor had an eerie glow in the moonlight, which flowed across its ancient surface and caught beautifully on each tiny ridge and ripple. This was a decidedly masculine room, resonating with power, influence, and control. Ironic really; control was the one thing that teen wished he had.

Everyone thought they had him pegged. They would swear they had the great Draco Lucius Malfoy all figured out. It was downright frustrating to him; he didn't even know who he was anymore. Could he be anything other than what others expected him to be? He wanted to take command of his own life and prove them all wrong, but he didn't think he had that choice any longer. Every aspect of his life was currently under the command of The Dark Lord, and anyone with half of a functioning brain could see that man's complete madness. Good old Voldemort was hell bent to destroy the world—why would he care if his plans completely destroyed the life of Draco and his family. To Draco Voldemort's scheme to purify the world was bonkers. The math did not add up to Draco. If purebloods were better than all others then why would they risk death in a petty attempt to harass muggles and mudbloods? He probably would never be able to stomach muggles, but in his mind if they left him alone he would be more than happy to simply continue to ignore them.

For his part, Draco just wanted to silence his thoughts and get some rest. He'd been groggy all day, but right now he felt as if he had been trampled by a heard of Centaurs only to be thrown beneath the Hogwarts Express. His entire body ached as if he'd just been through a grueling session of "family time" with his darling Aunt. She usually elected to use him as target practice. He found it all perverse. It was, as she often reminded him, only what the _Coward_ deserved for failing such a simple task. Who would send a sixteen year old student to kill their Headmaster, really? Aunt Bellatrix craved a sadistic thrill to be able to sleep at night. He wasn't sure but he would be willing to bet that Rodolphus couldn't satisfy his wife. There had to be a reason why Bellatrix was permanently in a foul mood and panted after the Dark Lord brazenly in her husband's presence.

The night dragged unbearably on with his mind racing and his body aching all throughout. It seemed like it would never end. Tomorrow was his to be his birthday, but he had a premonition that he would probably stay locked in his room all day in acute misery. Briefly, he wondered if suffocating himself with his own pillow was a legitimate means of falling asleep. It was not his most sensible idea ever. It was tad more permanent of a solution that he wasn't really interested in fulfilling, but it was the best he could conjure up at the moment. His head pounded. Every sound seemed magnified and warped. Even the constant ticking of the clock, time moving slowly and endlessly on, hammered in his skull and ceaselessly taunted him. The cooling charms in the room were helpless against the overwhelming heat. He had begun to consider the heinous idea that he might have a fever.

Huffing and impatient, he turned to look at the damn clock but was too caught in his own bedding to move. Draco's sheet was unyielding like it had cemented itself to his skin He fought with it what seemed like eons but might have been only seconds, only succeeding in twisting the cursed fabric even tighter around his long limbs. There was nothing comfortable about tonight's attempt of finding sweet slumber. He refused to let a blasted piece of woven fabric imprison him. Finally, he broke free with an undignified croak of triumph. He managed to glimpse his clock just as it struck midnight.

The first chime came, tearing through the silence of the night. Draco sighed with the sound of it—the first moment of his next year of life. He resigned himself to another year of complete drudgery. Draco was a proud man; however, he was not above allowing himself to start yet another round of self-piteous wallowing. Before another thought could enter his head he promptly froze. His world was suddenly inundated with excruciating pain—vibrating through his very skeleton and making the room around him warp and sway in the most accursed of ways. He had just enough mental faculty left to look down at his own body, horrified to watch every bone in his body break one by one.

Draco had been told since before he could remember that Malfoys were supposed to be in control of themselves at all times. Emotion was allowed only for the purposes of manipulation. And they certainly never lowered themselves to something so mundane as screaming. But the sound that ripped itself from his chest at that moment was the most gruesome ever to be heard in Malfoy Manor. He screamed and was only vaguely aware of it, using his voice as a way to release even a portion of the madness that gripped him until his vocal chords were too strained to utter any audible noise. All pride and sense of self had left him in the face of this agony.

He didn't know how long he was trapped in that nightmare, but it could have been years. Some part of him knew that in the world around him, time was ticking forward, and when his awareness flickered briefly back he thought he could feel something blessedly cool against his skin. Draco struggled to stay in that place, but he could not. He was fighting just to keep his sense of self. His consciousness cycled between nothingness and chaos.

Draco was nowhere near cognizant enough to recognize his parents' and his Healer's attempt to bring down the radiating fever, but he realized later what must have happened. All he knew was the unrelenting pain until, just as quickly as this attack had sprung, it retreated. His whole essence cried in relief to be absent from the torture. All his nerves still throbbed with the memory of the extreme ordeal, but in the face of what he'd just gone through this gentle ache seemed divine. Unable to take any more, he descended into a deep sleep.

* * *

><p><em>Awaken<em>

Draco was unsure from whence the forceful command to stir from his slumber originated—his stomach, his conscience, or some higher power. Then his sarcasm kicked in. Who was he kidding; any higher power had forsaken him long ago. This… whatever it was, was simply the latest development in the long litany of things that plagued him. It was either hunger or his own madness waking him now, and that was the end of it. However, regardless of who'd made them, he had no choice but to oblige the order to wake. His mind was fully alert now, and he would never have gotten back to sleep anyway even though it was a laborious task to rouse his exhausted body.

His eyes fluttered open. What he expected to meet was the usual, heat hazy world he had left the night before. What he found instead was a strange mirage. Everything was shockingly vibrant and clear; the colors seemed brighter, outlines starker. Draco gazed around in wonder, drinking in his surrounds as if for the first time. Was there a pattern engraved on the ceiling? Draco blinked, shook his head and looked again. The tiny, intricate detailing of his high ceiling looked back. Draco took a few seconds to panic before the traditional Malfoy-composure reared its head. Surely this was an illusion. He had most likely slept for a long time, which had messed with his vision before. Besides, everyone knew that fevers did strange things to the mind. This was just a figment of his unruly imagination.

Draco's will eventually overpowered his body's protests and he set himself to moving. He felt as if any more time in that prison of silk would make his muscles atrophy. Morbidly, he wondered if this was how rigor mortis felt to the dead; assuming they could feel, of course. Every muscle in his body was stiff and taut, as if he had been tested beyond any mortal limit. It was horridly taxing just to get up, but the idea of remaining stationary any longer was simply too pathetic to consider.

His usual lithe movements were currently inoperative, so he wound up hobbling along and cursing at himself to start functioning again. In his mind, it had become a necessity to go about his routine despite his recent illness. It was an allowable self-comfort—a way to keep himself from thinking too much about the horrible visions of last night. Draco shuddered at the memory of those preposterous fever dreams. He reasoned that his temperature must have gotten unbelievably high for a logical person like himself to have such a vivid, heat-induced nightmare. Really his bones breaking beneath his very gaze with no visible cause? It had to be the fever. Any other explanation was too absurd even for a man who been surrounded by magic his entire life.

Judging by the overly bright light streaming into the room from behind his dark curtains, he must already have wasted more than half the day away. It was a fact that only goaded him further to prove that he was not some pitiful invalid. He selected one of his many immaculate, light-weight dress shirts and some comfortable slacks, then directed himself towards his private bathroom. A shower to wash the residue of sickly sweat off of his body would do him some good. He had been taught from a very young age to dispose of any traces of weakness in the most timely of manners, and feeling grimy all over like this only reminded him of last night's terror. He was too disgusted by his appearance and the memory of his pathetic display last night to even look in the mirror, despite his reputation as the epitome of vanity in a man.

The hot water and soothing bath soaps swept over his weary form, and eased much of his tension away. He lingered there just long enough to feel human again and then resigned himself to facing the remains of today—just another wretched day spent waiting and wondering if Voldemort would request his followers' immediate attention. That was the plan, anyway. Unfortunately, life did not want to make itself simple for Draco. The second he sought to get dressed it became apparent to him that someone had shrunken his blasted shirt. It was a fact most perplexing; never before had any of the house-elves made such a gross mistake. But his tailored shirt would not go over his shoulders, reach his wrists, or even come anywhere close to hitting below his waist. An internal battle raged within Draco; whether it was best to enlarge the garment and run the possibility of ruining its tailoring charms, or to forgo his dignity and go downstairs in his bathrobe.

Well the clothes he had selected were already ruined anyway, he reasoned to himself. He would just have to enlarge them and risk looking, Merlin forbid it, slightly frumpy. Draco scoffed. What a glorious day this was turning out to be.

He sauntered out of his wing of the manor on a mission of the most basic nature: food. However, as he marched on his way to find it he began to feel most peculiar. It came suddenly—that annoyingly persistent queasiness one suffered when one started to realize something was off. The manor was never truly loud, but the portraits did have a way of creating a little noise here and there. Draco was not usually one to pay much mind to his dead ancestor's portraits. They really didn't have anything that fascinating to say. There are only so many times a person could glorify the linage of the Malfoy and insult everyone else before it got a little humdrum. However, at that moment the portraits were more silent and still than a moon-lit graveyard. They had all frozen within their frames, as if they had all simultaneously experienced some sort of portrait-hysteria. Draco looked from one pale, painted fact to another in askance, but none of them were willing to look him in the eyes. Some had an expression acutely similar to shame written clearly across their delicate visages. Draco scowled, and raised one eyebrow, mentally commanding them to return to their normal behavior, but none of them did. Draco had witnessed every person in his life fall victim to the virus that was Voldemort. Draco guessed this only justified his theory that insanity was contagious; even animated paintings could become unhinged like everyone else.

"Lucius, you cannot be serious." Draco paused in his step, surprised to hear Snape's oily drawl emanate from his father's formal study. It wasn't every often that family friends visited anymore. Well… perhaps that was a lie. Some days there were plenty of "friends" visiting, but never during the middle of the day. They preferred the dark of night to cloak their intentions these days, not that it wasn't simple to figure that crowd out anyway.

"Severus, what else can I do?" I am doing my best to try to protect my son. You know what this could mean." Lucius' usually refined tone was replaced with a desperate urgency that made this situation even more confusing.

He could hear his father's footsteps as he paced. He had never known his father to be so loudly agitated. From his safe, eavesdropping post, Draco sneered at the bold proclamation. Where the hell had that protection been last year? Lucius hadn't voiced any qualms about Voldemort sending him on a mission to murder the Headmaster. What could his father possibly care enough about to protect him from now. Could it be an unfortunate marriage to a mountain troll? He had a brief musing over what it would be like to attempt to procreate with Millicent Bulstrode, which made his stomach attempt to rid itself of all remaining contents. Draco felt undignified at the very idea of it. He swore he would never think such a horrible thought again.

Snape's scoff must have been heard throughout the house it was so overdramatic. Draco swore he could almost hear Snape's cloak dramatically follow Snape around the room. "You think he won't find out?" Draco wondered did Professor Snape just slam his fist onto a desk?

" Draco needs to know what is happening to him; so, he can protect himself. His life depends on him accepting this. Denial will help no one." Snape challenged back.

"What if someone else is to discover this? Our family can trust you, but I cannot doom my so—"

"Your damning him to death, Lucius, if you don't tell him the truth. If I understand the research at our disposal; he has one year from the start of his transformation. He already lost weeks from exhaustion of receiving his inheritance." It was a rare to listen to the monotonic Potion Master get so vehemently upset.

Draco refused to be idle any longer. His blood boiled. He would demand to know what his family was hiding now. If his life was on the line, yet again, he would rather be given the courtesy to know the truth. As he grew angrier his temperature seemed to spike, weakening the last bit of resolve to remain couth. The locked doors of the grand study flew open at his touch. Snape and Lucius turned to the door, ready to attack whoever had just blasted in and ruined what needed to remain a very private conversation. Relief flooded both Lucius and Severus' faces when they saw it was only Draco at the door. Lucius grabbed the back of his chair for support as the little color in his face drained away. Of course, Draco could see Snape was far more pleased than his father that he had barged so rudely into the office. It would appear Lucius would concede this round to Draco. However, it sounded like it would be unavoidable to keep this secret from him anyway.

"Father, tell me now." Draco voice was low and threatening. It reverberated with power; this command needed to be followed.

Lucius began to collapse into his chair in utter defeat his usually kept hair veiling his face away from his son's wrath. "I have to apologize—"

"Now!" Draco was done with pleasantries his father could lecture him all he wanted on his behavior another day.

"You are a Veela, my son"

**Passion is a sort of fever in the mind, which leaves us weaker than it found us~ William Penn **

* * *

><p>OMAKE<p>

"Lucius, you cannot be serious."

"No, I'm a Malfoy. My wife's a Black perhaps you should ask her"

Created by my Beta- cyrstal-chan!


	2. Remarkably Sober

Of all the things Draco expected his father to say, that particular phrase was fairly low on the registry. In his mind, it ranked probably somewhere between being informed that he was Harry Potter's twin brother, and learning he's been betrothed to a unicorn. What Lucius said should have been preposterous. The scholarly world had never believed that a male Veela could exist. There was a commonly accepted truth that Veela blood in a witch was an extreme rarity, but that due to chance or fate or magical tragedy, there had never been any male Veela in existence.

He should have been able to predict it; of course Draco's life would defy the natural laws of the world. Then again what was ever normal about any occurrence in the wizarding world?

The bloodlines of the Veela were so dilute. The historians were very flippant about the eventual tragic demise of the race. According to every textbook Draco had at his disposal, they were a magical species barreling headlong down the road to becoming extinct due to their inability to produce male offspring. There was some speculation that Veelas were actually the mythical sirens of old. Therefore, of course Veelas could only be females. Draco liked to believe this assumption epitomized the stupidity of bookworms and their inability to think of anything not found in a reference book. It seemed perfectly obvious to Draco it was possible for male Veelas to live. He knew he was a man. He did not need to double check this fact.

Draco had been cloistered up in his room under the pretenses of the most ingenious lie his parents could concoct. He'd contracted Vanishing Sickness and had ghastly allergic reaction to the potion a healer administrated to him. It was a near death experience for him that demanded he rest for weeks, or so the story went. In a way, Draco felt that he really had died that night. He could no longer be called a pureblood. His blood-work revealed he had the strongest amount of Veela blood ever to be documented in any one. When the family Healer tested Draco for Veela heritage all were flabbergasted to find that Draco, without a doubt, was a full Veela. Draco was sure the Healer cursed himself for taking an Unbreakable Vow to keep Draco's condition a secret. There was no doubt in Draco's mind the Healer probably considered breaking it just to receive the eternal glory of discovering and treating the first male Veela in history. However, there is no satisfaction if one couldn't wallow in personal glory. Plus, the Healer probably thought not even death could save him from the retribution the Malfoy clan would deliver for the betrayal.

For clear reasons, he desperately needed a cover, and Vanishing Sickness was a good ruse. It kept Voldemort and his brute squad out of the manor, for fear of contracting the disease themselves if nothing else. The Malfoys preferred the bubble of solitude that blanked the Manor for the coming weeks. The lie did almost a better job keeping Draco hidden from anyone who might take interest in Draco than the wrought iron and stone probably ever had. However, the excuse had reached its expiration date all too quickly. To celebrate Draco's return to glorious health, the Dark Lord saw it fitting to have the meeting take place at Malfoy Manor. It felt like it was more like another reminder that there was no escape from the nightmare that was his fate: swearing eternal allegiance to the psychotic killer.

Draco shook his head violently, trying to physically banish his thoughts from his skull. He glared at pristine room where the newest addition to his life taunted him. The bright lilac bottle on his desk seemed to jeer back, fully accepting the challenge thrown down from Draco. He had no choice but to follow orders, the potion won by default tonight. It would be consumed.

Those who had more time then sense apparently preferred to research the absolutely pointless. One such research study focused on the effects that the Draught of Peace had on patients adjusting to Veela changes. It appeared to Draco certain Healers share the same complex. They all just had to focus on the impossible, like diminishing the difficult reactions of failed Veela courtships, instead of actually trying to save lives on a normal basis. Regardless, Snape believed that the use of the draught should give the Draco more control given the results the Healers illustrated in the study. Draco had been cautioned against abusing the potion; he hoped that there were not any long term effects from so heavily relying on the Draught of Peace. As long as he didn't start drooling in the middle of the meeting like some beast, he would be satisfied. He could not hide the physical changes that he went through, but other explanations would also justify the transformations. Seventeen year olds did tend to have rather large growth spurts. It wouldn't be completely out of the question that Draco just happened to grow several centimeters in a summer.

The excuses coupled with the potion should have allowed him to keep his true nature hidden from people who would seek to destroy Draco, (the Order of the flaming fools) or aspire to exploit his new powers, (he who must not have a brain). Draco was lucid enough to realize that it might be the other way around. Team Harry with their soft hearts beating with all things noble might seek to recruit him if they heard his pathetic situation and Team Voldie might see him as more of a threat than a weapon and try to eliminate any possible threat to the status quo. Either way, it didn't change Draco's lot in life. Regardless of the actions his foes might actually take, he could not afford for the truth to come out at one of these Voldemort angst sessions.

The way Draco perceived the situation; he was already in a countdown to his eventual death no matter what happened. If Voldemort found out the truth he was dead. If the Order learned about it he would have a larger target on his back. If he couldn't find his mate he'd surely waste away. If the mate refused his love he'd suffer a pitiful demise. If she died in this war he would instantaneously expire. With all those things in consideration, his odds for surviving this war were merger at best; less than a fourth year (other than Potter) surviving and winning the Triwizard Tournament. He would try to hold out as long as possible—because he still retained some semblance of pride, not because he believed in lovey dovey immature faery tales to explain sex under the allusion of romance.

Well, for now he had to only endure through the meeting. He could dwell on his depressing survival prospects later.

The Draught of Peace left a sickly sweet after taste that burned his heightened palate. Ordinarily, Draco would have had some witty but sarcastic remark on peace floating caustically about his head, but he was overwhelmed with the initial rush of tranquility. He longed to do nothing more than to stay here quiet and complacent in his room. However, he still maintained enough sense to know he could not do such a thing. It was time for him to descend to the hellish assembly of Death Eaters.

* * *

><p>Drag—a verb which means to draw hence with force, violence, or roughness; to draw slowly with difficulty.<p>

This meeting was the very definition of dragging. The force of course originated from the ever lovely Dark Lord of everlasting stupidity. The difficulty rested on Draco's ability to bear the evening as stoically as possible. However, even with the Draught of Peace in his blood system his nervousness and the nausea left him feeling like he was on trial yet again. Voldemort was droning on about world domination and the eventual execution of Mister-Boy-Hero himself. There was some death to be had, but mostly the topic du jure was mayhem. And one couldn't forget the humiliation that was on the itinerary for Voldemort's macabre pleasure. He'd robbed his father of his wand, which was the most emasculating thing one wizard could inflict on another. The family had already lost their honor with the high quality time in prison Lucius had already endured. So, why not add insult to injury?

The meeting seemed to go on and on until, like shadows passing in the night, the Lord of idiocy and his band of masked monkeys left the Manor.

On the bright-side, Draco had been given the pristine _honor_ to be chosen to be lead minion for the junior ranked _brute squad_. Previously, Draco would have been overjoyed to hold the position. Now, he was wiser; this was just yet another way he and his family could be continuously watched. Last year was stressful enough and that was when he thought he was perfectly 100% human, Ha! Instead he was living the dream of the average 10 year old girl; he was a rare mythological creature destined for a soul mate.

Well, if the average brat with pigtails really wanted this botched reality, they could bloody well have it. He would rather go back to his days of having a slew of beautiful witches at his disposal. That had been entertaining. Plus, he had been very proficient with dealing with their wants and needs. He had often been informed how greatly he performed. Yes, he knew _eventually_ he would settle down, marry, and produce a Malfoy heir himself, but he had several good years he had planned on wasting with large quantities of beautiful broads. Now, his choices were "bond"—he refused to say mate, he didn't like the connation of being like an animal—or death. It would appear that Draco was in need of a quality relationship much sooner than he ever thought in his hellish nightmares. His future spouse better not be a hag because the last thing he wanted was to wish for death after the fact. According to the minimal research he had been able to stomach reading about the mating section of his condition, a Veela's mate was the very epitome of perfection. Draco personally was tired of the obsession with the quest of perfection. It was impossible to ever achieve perfection. His entire life had been a quest to be perfect. Now, he was stuck in a world dying to find his perfect match.

* * *

><p>For days Draco would do everything in his power to lose himself in the confines of the Malfoy extensive library. However, even with the mountain of materials available to distract him, Draco felt uneasy. He had entered the market of trying to buy any and all books about Veela, he could not shake the overwhelming feeling that he was missing something important. Oh, not in the sappy way—he wasn't desperately pleading for his mate. He luckily hadn't matured enough to be able to long for his mate yet. No it is that annoying sense one gets when they know information is being withheld. Draco was an intrepid advocate for full disclosure. He'd never been a fan of surprises, or being left purposely ignorant. It made a man look daft when he was the only one lacking the truth, and Draco had never reveled in the joys of playing the fool. He did his best with what he could to educate himself on his condition, but he only had the supplies housed in the growing Malfoy library. It was filled with the rarest and sought after books, but not every answer in life can be found within ink remnants of previous generations. Especially when it came to a creature as increasingly rare and private as the Veela.<p>

Draco self-imposed solitude was interrupted abruptly by his godfather's appearance. Severus certainly had a flare for the dramatics. He appeared at just the right moment, when Draco was fully emerged in his research. He had learned from an early age his mentor's ability to silently appear in the most annoying moments. Most students would quake with fear at the grave grace Snape exuded, but then, most of his peers were still bumbling along trying to master their own two feet without becoming a clumsy sideshow. No, Draco had honed the art of being a true Slytherin long ago. So when Snape appeared seemingly out of thin air at his side and lingered in the empty chair, Draco was not at all flustered. However, this did not mean Draco was in the mood to have a discussion with the older man.

"May I help you?" Draco assumed that the rest of his evening would be another wonderful lecture on his responsibilities.

It was simple to conclude that Draco wasn't looking forward to it. So why not at least goad his opponent? The thrill of wit and banter was his eternal pastime. Severus's face clearly expressed his annoyance at the sass in Draco's delivery.

"This is not the time for portraying the attitude of a petulant teenage girl." It was apparent that both men were prepared for such sparring match. There was a flicker of amusement in Snape's eyes as he spoke. Draco only sneered back in response. He rather did not enjoy being compared to the likes of Brown. The annoyed teen elected not to dignify that slanderous statement with a response. Instead, he headed over to decanter by the fireplace. He poured himself a little Blishen and offered Snape his own glass. He had a feeling this conversation would need a glass or two to survive through.

"Draco, there is no simple way to have this conversation." Snape began anew as he as he took the offered firewhiskey. Draco was content to stare into the glass as he swirled the potent beverage to watch the way it reflected the light and danced within its glass prison, waiting for his godfather to continue. "Draco, it is undeniable that you have been asked to do many egregious things at far too young of age. You have witnessed many terrible things."

"I sense a 'but' coming," Draco drawled, trying to resist the urge to fidget. It was an unbecoming habit he'd taken pains to remove from himself at a younger age. Since the transformation he felt he had regressed waiting for Snape to get to the heart of his lecture only seemed to heighten Draco's agitation.

"Perceptive as ever," Snape allowed. "I know you think you have had all your choices stripped from you, but you do still have choices." Snape's supposedly enlightening comment sparked a scoff to ripple out from its recipient. Draco had already studied his wonderful choices and he saw no hope at all for his situation.

"Death or more death. How very pleasant, I think I will pick—"The sound of Snape's glass slamming down hard on the table beside him silenced Draco.

"Do not be flippant with me; we are in a war." Severus very rarely broke his vow to remain stoic at all times. Tonight appeared to be one of the rare exceptions, his tone seemed to hold a secret. Draco assumed it was one he wished to know, but it carried such weight Draco almost felt unworthy of being invited in on the enigma. It rattled at the foundation of Draco's fortress of bitterness. In a last ditch defensive move Draco responded his stoic safeguards crumbling. Unfortunately he felt that his emotions were just a whirlwind of confusion without his apathetic tone.

"I didn't ask to be a Veela. I didn't ask for any of this." To Draco his own voice sounded dejected.

"Wake up, Draco. None of us ask for this. No one asks for their personal challenges. No one asks for the hardships of war to come crashing down on them" Snape's answers were evading Draco's mind against his wishes. He didn't want to think about the truth of those words. It made the situation more real and more unavoidable to try to accept this impossible life dealt to him by fate.

"I am afraid." Draco admitted after he overcame the awkward silence that descended over the room. If Draco had dared to look Snape in the eye he would have seen how proud the mentor was for Draco's maturity.

"What if there is nothing I can do?" The fortress of denial was crumbling down. He looked at his godfather with tears brimming in his eyes, and cursed himself for acting more hormonal than a pregnant witch. It was rubbish that his body had attempted to cry. Luckily it remained a failed effort. He was becoming a snarky sap yet again. Draco hated himself for the weakness he felt. Creature or not, he should be stronger than this. He needed to be stronger than this.

"Once you can begin to realize the options at your feet, you will be amazed. I have faith that you will channel your fear and pick the correct choice." Draco glanced up, thankful to hear that someone had faith in him. Usually everyone just assumed the worst about him. There were days he felt devoid of any decency. Draco had no words to express his twisted _sappy_ emotions.

"When we return to Hogwarts, you will have a great deal of personal challenges. Draco, I must stress the import of embracing your Veela side. Your family means well, but you deserve to find her Draco. She is out there and you might be her only hope to survive this war." Snape's words made Draco feel positively nauseous.

By the time Draco had overcome his sharp discomfort, he realized that Snape had already disappeared into the night. The conversation was over, without a doubt. However, the words that been said were still reverberating within his mind. He was starting to realize the importance of figuring out who his mate was. The very thought made his heart seem to hum in his chest. It appeared the Veela traits were growing stronger. This was probably the time when he would have to learn how to control himself. Well, he mastered his body when he was merely a petulant schoolboy; mastering his new form should eventually come to him. If he managed to get this right, it could mean experiencing absolute bliss; sharing his life with one lucky witch. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad…Maybe there was something worth fighting for, something worth dying for. He just didn't know her name yet.

**True heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic. It is not the urge to surpass all at whatever cost, but the urge to serve others at whatever cost ~ Arthur Ashe**

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><p>music saves my soul 94<p>

FluffyPurpleBunny

kataragurl27

cosmoGirl666

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Thank you for the kind reviews.

FluffyPurpleBunny-the serious joke was the product of a sleep deprived Beta. It was very entertaining to us at 1am.


	3. To Sleep

_There was a magical glow encompassing everything before him. He forcibly blinked to try to focus his vision but it was mute. It was like his eyes were failing him. Everything had this distorted blurred quality to it, as if someone had shined too much bright light in already sensitive eyes. It was giving him a headache. Draco was lost in the moment, fighting to regain and utilize all his senses. He had been robbed of all tactical and auditory abilities, and left disconcerted in the wake. He swept the room to cast out for some kind of bearing on his situation. Candle light warmed the hard stone surrounding him. The candles, flowers, and greenery encircled the area giving it a sense of romance. His initial confusion gradually waning, he noticed a large group of cloaked and caped people staring towards the front of the hall. They were a stone-still mass of bodies. The lack of sound made it all very difficult to understand. What was everyone waiting for? And more importantly, why was he here? _

_Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the approach of a late arrival. The newcomer looked like he'd been plucked from the medieval era, he sported such ostentatious garb. But despite all the embroidery, lace and different fabrics he still retained a definitely masculine presence. He appeared to be in an incredibly pleasant mood, beaming as he was from front of the isle. A fact Draco was thankful for, given the huge broad sword hanging by his side, and Draco's rather salient realization that he had no real reason to be at this important and obviously formal event. The metal of the blade gleaming in the candle light was positively foreboding and as an uninvited guest, Draco felt he made a tempting target. He started to surreptitiously reach for his wand, just in case the man with the sword took offense to his intrusion. He quickly found himself defenseless. His trusty wand was missing. _

_Draco was attempting to back away and look for an exit when everyone's eyes turned directly and simultaneously toward him. He muttered a prayer to whoever would listen, hoping to talk his way out of this situation with all limbs unscathed. He had always been gifted with a talented tongue. He hadn't been dubbed a Slytherin Prince for nothing. Draco was readying himself to deliverer his life into good graces of the lunatics with swords and lace when the most perplexing thing occurred. _

_He had been told he walked all over women by many a disapproving voice, but that had only been figuratively. At least he'd never been accused of walking through someone, which was what happened to him in that second. A woman literally walked straight through him, as if he were less noticeable than the morning mist. _

_ She was a beautiful woman; there was no doubt about that. However, she did nothing for him personally. Her coloring was too similar to his and he had already reached the quota for narcissism in his lifetime. Flowers were twined into her long platinum hair, which flowed freely down her back. Draco had to wonder when this woman had last gotten a haircut, for her hair reached such unfathomable lengths. She wore a pristine white and gold garment that had to be costly. _

_He watched this new beauty and the lacy-swordsman from earlier trade overwhelmingly sappy looks of absolute adoration. The misplaced Slytherin realized somewhat sluggishly that he had somehow intruded on a wedding. He watched the couple as their hands were bound in a ceremonial cloth and the priest gave his blessing. He tried to pay attention to service but he must have failed, for the whole thing seemed to be over before it even started. The pair walked back up the isle and the bride kissed the ring on her groom's hand. But as her lips left the metal, he saw something which peaked his curiosity. The Malfoy crest rested quite clearly on that man's hand. He turned to follow them and found the same crest hanging in the breeze, illuminated by the moonlight's rays. _

_ He blinked at it for only a moment and moved, trying to find where this Malfoy bride and groom had ran off to. It was when he took the steps to follow them that he finally felt something—the first tactile sensation since he'd found himself in this place—the feeling of falling… _


	4. Spark of divinity

The birds were chirping as they frolicked across the sky. They danced from tree to tree in the maze of the Malfoy's gardens. It was a boring pattern which had no true rhythm or reason. Morning had come ungodly too early for Draco. It was a challenge to be delighted with the day when his sleep had been plagued by dreams. Even though he hated to admit it, the sky was simply picturesque with the clouds floating along with the gentle cool breeze. It had the warning of autumn's eventual return. However, that was not a concern yet. The gardens were charmed to extend each flower's beauty for as long as possible. The scents of all the various blooms wafted around the elegant table and chairs setup for casual retreats for the family to use. His mother would say there was an intoxicating aroma of loveliness in the air. Most guests were unaware of the splendor of the extensive gardens surrounding the Manor. It was a shame. Everybody came for the dreary dungeons and missed this.

Breakfast out in labyrinth was becoming a more frequent occurrence. The more treacherous the war became the more Draco's mother desired to have peace with her flowers. It was the perfect escape from the cold stone that constantly bounded the members of high society. Narcissa used it as her private haven for many years. Draco was sure getting lost amidst the blooms was the way his mother dealt with the overwhelming threats of war breathing hotly down on each of them. The poor woman dealt with being the wife of a defamed man and recently inherited a creature for a son. She deserved at least this much. A little tranquility was needed in her life.

She never showed any hints of how it affected her. Some might think she was callous or maybe too docile for her own good but Draco knew better. She was reserved. Like many other pureblood daughters, she had been taught from a very young age the importance of being a Lady of a House with all that entitled. She loved her family. The modern world might not understand that pureblood came from a world where demands were commonplace. One must remain stoic at all times. To these families, this belief was as real and justified as the principle of gravity. It was pointless to ignore therefore each Malfoy had been hardened and tested. This tradition had made Draco a man. Of course, as an intelligent man when his mother had asked him to join her for tea before he departed for Hogwarts, he did not disappoint her.

This meant he woke up bright and early and found himself spending the morning in the garden. Unfortunately, his father did not join them for breakfast yet again. Draco had assumed his father did not have the stomach to face his sole heir any longer. Lucius avoided all possible incidents where they would interact with one another. In fact Draco hardly saw Lucius anymore other than for a few meetings here and there when Voldemort beckon the Death Eaters to his gruesome side. Thankfully, Draco had not been requested to attend all the sessions. Lucius had not been as lucky. His father's pride had already been destroyed but more was taken from him. It had been a tough couple of meeting when Lucius's wand failed to perform the way the Dark Lord wanted against Potter. Usually wizards realized how important it was to use a receptive wand, which means use your own blooming wand. Anyway, there wasn't much mercy or affection being doled out from the power hungry zealot these days. It was hard to live in a world dominated by vice. When Draco was able to glance at his father, he saw the toll written clearly on his withering form.

"Draco, be careful this year." Narcissa's voice intruded his musing on his father. Her voice was the epitome of what every refined Lady of a prominent House hope to be. It carried a weight all to itself and held a poise confidence few witches could even dream to command.

"Of course, Mother."

One couldn't afford to be anything but careful these days, but Draco knew better than to argue with a mother's nature.

"Such a beautiful day to take a turn about the gardens, don't you agree?" Narcissa quietly rose from her chair.

Draco nodded his agreement to his mother's suggestion. Having only dregs of his beverage Draco quickly finished his cup of his strong tea. When Draco stood it marked the end of breakfast for the Malfoys. Silently, the House Elves cleared the table as if there had never been the spread of teas and scones and marmalades. Sparing no other thought to the table he walked over to his mother side.

Draco had been trained from a very young age. There were many expectations on what it meant to be a Malfoy. However, the most important lessons his mother stressed was what it meant to be a gentleman. The mastery of chivalry was a rarity these days. Some found it antiquated, however, the Malfoys had always found comfort in the continuity it gave society through generations. He offered his mother his arm and they started to stroll down the rows of magical and traditional blooms. His mother presence was very graceful but he could feel she was struggling with something. After the many burdens forcefully doled out on him, he could determine kindred spirits effortlessly. His previous prowess compounded with his developing empathic abilities gave him greater knowledge on what her emotions were at the moment. He assumed their cause could only arise from one thing.

Most purebloods would be enraged to be informed that their heritage had been tainted. It was not an uncommon occurrence for a family to disown a child who would bring shame to the family. To have the family's only heir go through such a transformation would be unacceptable. It would be a double edge sword for a family to deal with. Not all families would weigh the options that same. He wondered what his family would determine more weighty.

"Draco, I want you to know how thankful I am to have you as my son." Narcissa's voice was soft and refused to allow for too much emotion to enter into her tone, as always.

It had been the figurative dragon in the room glowering at the three Malfoys. Draco realized it was not completely out of the question for them to disown him if his mate ended up being unsatisfactory. It would be suicidal to everyone in the family to reveal his Veela change in a middle of a war. However, he couldn't silence the question reverberating in his mind: if he survived the war would he remain in his family? It appeared to Draco that his previously hesitant mother would be willing to broach this difficult subject. It amazed Draco what forced departures compelled people to reveal to one another.

"It is truly a shame that I do not have sibling to keep the Malfoy's heritage pristine." Draco swallowed the bitterness he felt and kept his voice just as controlled as was expected of him.

Narcissa halted their path in the garden and squeezed her son's hand. Pain was in her eyes. It was an unmentionable fact that his mother fought to have more children but always failed. He never liked bring up the topic. All he remembered was how distraught his mother was after a particularly terrible miscarriage when he was four. He knew he should have not uttered those words. He probably should feel guilty for reminding her of it all. He could not deny that he was being selfish. But, his own fears outweighed his prudent judgment.

"You have always been the biggest blessing in my life. You didn't sully anyone's lineage, my child. The way I see it, you are the first to actually have the true Malfoy heritage."

She smiled at her son as she turned around to head back to the Manor. Draco could not help his response of a half-smile to his mother jib at the Malfoy's dirty little secret. To think how effortlessly the feared fable altered everything in all their lives.

"I watched my parents disown a sister. To have a sister ripped out of my life forever was the hardest thing I did in my youth. It is something I regret. Witnessing the hurt…" Narcissa stopped herself and decided those words did not need to be finished.

"We could not disown our flesh and blood. One cannot throw away something as precious as family."

"I doubt my father would agree. I have failed him" Draco picked a flower from the tree overhead and twirled it in between his thumb and index finger.

"I cannot give him a _pureblood_ wizard to continue the line. From now on there will be Veela blood in the Malfoy line." Draco informed his mother frankly.

"Veela blood has always been there Draco." Her attempt to pacify Draco's concern did not succeed.

"Yes, that is true; however, he will not even look at me anymore, mother." Draco tried to make his mother understand: why he was so concerned; and why he felt like he might not be welcome back into his own family for something outside of his control. He had belittled many people in his life. He had done some terrible things. He had trampled over a few individuals a time or two, but never had he feared being excommunicated from his only family. Then again, he never thought he would be such a source of shame.

"We both love you. Lucius feels that he has failed you. It is hard to stomach failing one's child. You now bear the punishment from some ancient ancestor's choice. The only way you can fail us is if you fail to survive this, darling."

Quietly, a House Elf approached the pair to remind Draco of the time. Regardless of how ready he was to escape the immediate grasp of Voldemort, he was still nervous of what would await for him during his final year. Both Draco and Narcissa knew it was time for Draco to depart and without further ado they shared their traditional farewell—a kiss on the elder woman's cheek. His luggage had been shrunken and lightened earlier to be a more convenient size to deal with in the hustle and bustle that was waiting for him at Platform 9 ¾. Draco was thankful that he could Apparate on his own this year. He never much enjoyed the gritty feeling he felt from Floo travel. This way of transportation was much more effective and therefore preferable. With a crack he left the manor. Before everything in his vision was warped, he noticed the concern on his mother's face. He hoped those fears did not come to pass.

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><p>Draco determined that this had to be a prelude to hell itself. Not that he had expected a jovial welcome, but some sense of couth from his peers would have been welcome. Instead, the immediate reaction to his return after the events of last end-of-term seemed to be one of confusion. Apparently, his mere presence was too baffling for the immature minds surrounding him. Of course, it wasn't exactly as if Draco had spent the last six years at Hogwarts trying to earn the warm fuzzy feelings of acceptance from them. He had much larger issues to handle. Instead, he focused on remaining tranquil as he dealt with his new condition. Going from the only dealing with a dozen or so nutters at a "homicidals anonymous" meeting to be surrounded by so many people was hardly going to be a smooth transition, but he'd hoped it might be a <em>little<em> easier. Unfortunately, the Fates seemed to have conspired against him once more; what awaited him on the Platform had been not at all what he expected.

The moment he'd appeared at Platform 9 ¾-landing confidently and effortlessly of course, as only a Malfoy could—he'd been totally inundated by the foreign, unwarranted _feelings_ of everyone around him. Being a cool, unruffled sort of person himself, he didn't quite know what to do with them. He was drowning in the emotions, swift, overwhelming feeling thumping through his veins. Draco reminisced it was similar to the pain of being thoroughly throttled.

Draco had spent the tedious weeks of ghastly solitude in his wing scrutinizing the details available on Veela's abilities and conditions. However, it did not prepare him for the actual sensation of experiencing his empathetic prowess. Shutting out one person's feeling was a challenge. A crowd was an entire different battle. Instead he was forced to expressly understand just how _much_ lust Brown appeared to have for some poor fellow. Whatever she felt and for whoever she felt it for; Draco wanted no part of it. Ever. The same was true for everyone else in this lot.

There was no denying the trepidation that materialized in many of the students' eyes when they recognized him as he strode through the crowd. Previously, Draco would have felt the rush of power from the students' ardent attempts to not to cross him, but now he was too unnerved by the sidelong glances and the whispered words to enjoy it. As he walked through the crowd of hesitant families and reuniting friends, they scurried to the side, leaving him a wide path straight to the Express.

One of the side effects of going to Hogwarts was that rumors ran rampant. When students spent months being confined in close quarters, gossip served an important role as entertainment. Any scandalous detail needed to be circulated as quickly as possible. It would appear they would start very early this term as the whispers followed his footsteps. Draco had already prepared himself to deal counter the vicious tales people had concocted during the lonely months of summer. Very few were privileged with the truth. Draco desired that that number did not change. Of course those in the know had no plans in making those details public knowledge. His transgressions would remain unmentionable for now. He was not proud of what he had been pressured to do last term. Instead he focused on the present. Unfortunately, he had to patrol the Express to make sure the students were safe. Didn't choke on a chocolate frog or something—or so went the quip he had heard from a particularly cynical prefect when he was younger. Ah, the simple joys of being Head Boy.

The trip went relatively quickly, although not completely smooth. There is always one first year on the train every year that makes a complete blistering fool out of themselves. Some poor chap was being teased, apparently, by other titchy sods and it had rapidly dissolved in to a fiasco for Draco to handle. The offenders had taken, and subsequently lost, their victim's toad familiar, which had caused somewhat of a fight from the wimpy looking kid. They'd managed to bowl into two second year girls, and at one point someone had been tossed into the trolley. No pumpkin pasties for anyone this term, it seemed. A real fricassee. Nevertheless, he almost had the situation sufficiently dealt with when Longbottom decided to intrude.

"A little early to be harassing first years isn't it Malfoy? Even for _you_."

Of course, a Gryffindor _had_ to be there to play savior. On any other day, he might have taken up his usual (dashingly good looking) villain's role, but Draco had no desire to start anything with any of the Gryffindors this early in the term.

"No, the first years seem to be doing that sufficiently on their own." Draco forced himself not to role his eyes at the Longbottom's idiocy. How one managed not to see sugar coated destruction orbiting the first years was beyond him.

"I wouldn't put it pass you. Trying to indoctrinate new snakes to torment the other houses with?"

"Longbottom, pray tell me do I look like a shorting hat?"

"Nothing stops Slytherin from taking matters into their own hands."

Instead, he elected to play nicely with the daft and toothless lion. He suggested to the Gryffindork that he help the victim find his missing pet. Honestly, these blokes better hope they were not selected to be in Slytherin. This kind of behavior was unbecoming and he sternly warned the boys to check their behavior. He sent a threatening sneer to the group. The first years were slightly quaking. With nothing more to say to the bullies he went off in search of further idiocy, happily avoiding the simpering looks from the second year girls altogether.

When they reached their destination, he informed McGonagall on what he had been able to get out of the debacle. The students, unfortunately, had already earned themselves a nice evening with the Deputy Headmistress. He didn't even feel sympathy for them. He aided in getting the rest of the first years on their way before he and the Head Girl caught the last carriage to the feast. He had been shocked when he'd seen the Ravenclaw twin with the badge jutting from her uniform. He had expected the position to go the Gryffindor Princess, Ms. Know-it-all herself. Instead he was stuck sitting across from a girl he never cared enough to learn the name of. The carriage ride seemed to take longer than the train ride. She stared at him, mesmerized. She was using a voice she must have thought seductive but to him it might as well have been the screeches of mermaids. She went on and on how _excited_ she was to work with him. Excitement barely defined the emotion that was oozing from her now. She had attempted to move closer to him, as if he were her prey. Fortunately, Draco's years as a Seeker kept him in the position of power, firmly away from her grasp. What resulted was a debacle slightly unbecoming of a Malfoy, with the two of them scooting about the cab. She didn't give up the chase until the carriage stopped, disappointed as she watched him hurry away to safety.

Draco stalked into the Great Hall thankful to join his brethren of green.

"Sit next to me." Draco's former girlfriend quietly pleaded. Pansy's request was denied when Draco instead took solace at his rightful seat between the other powerful figures of his house. Thankfully they were both straight males (he was relatively certain of that fact, and didn't really care to find out for sure) so he didn't have to worry about them being overwhelmed by lust and wandering hands.

"Congratulations, Head Boy. I bet your father is proud." Theo took his goblet and toasted Draco's before he could take a sip.

"Thank you. Which two of you received my previous position of prefect?"

"Unfortunately not I. You will have to forgive me." Blaise paused for dramatic effect, ensuring he had everyone's full attention. "Alas, I will not be able to join you on your many moonlit strolls down the corridors, prowling for the elusive and moral-free dregs of Hogwarts that are snoggers."

"Thankfully, I will have Nott as my companion for Prefect duties." Pansy politely smiled at the stoic lad.

"Nicely done, Nott. I will rest easier knowing Zabini will not have a carte blanche to be out after hours."

Blaise never had the opportunity to fire a quip back since everyone became hushed when Snape and his billowing cloak arrived at the podium. It marked the beginning of the term. With that the evening truly began. The house of biased bravery had no issues in showing their disgust when they saw the Head Boy badge gleaming on his uniform during the feast. Headmaster Snape gave the Welcoming Speech informing the students of rules each student would be forced to abide by. His version lacked the warmth and flowery nature many of the students expected from the speech, but Draco thought his godfather hadn't made a bad go of it, and certainly merited more respect than what he was getting from crowd. While Snape's drawl boomed across the hall, Draco took the liberty of glancing around. It was a shame how many students were missing. Even the Golden Trifecta of Annoyances failed to arrive. Not that he didn't understand their reasons for remaining hidden. Draco doubted the Boy Who Better Not Die would be able to survive very long if everybody knew where he was during this _delicate political condition_. Education was a terrible thing to waste but then again safety during a war is much more precious.

**If you have anything really valuable to contribute to the world it will come through the expression of your own personality, that single spark of divinity that sets you off and makes you different from every other living creature~ Bruce Barton**

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><p>Thank you for taking the time to read this. Thank you to cutiekaren126 for the review.<p> 


	5. Perchance

_It was exceedingly too bright. Pupils were sun-drenched and scorched by the overflow of light, even as eye lids fought against it through an erratic pattern of blinks. It was a vindictive cycle of sharp blinding white followed by the onerous red where light shone through the membranes of his eyelids. He eased himself onto his side to avoid the haughty sun's cruel treatment of his vision. There was no sound, only light. The grainy, out of focus world around him was hard to stand. _

_ He struggled to his feet using a conveniently nearby stone to keep his balance. Once he'd regained enough of his vision to see straight, he took in his surroundings. The meadow in which he found himself was dotted by thick wildflowers and grasses, growing as tall as they pleased. The vivid colors swirled in what appeared to be a gentle breeze. Altogether, it painted a peaceful picture until Draco noticed the telltale flash of metal at the edges of the forest line—the armor and sword of some unknown. If he'd had more time and better bearings, he'd probably have tried to hide himself. As it was, he could do little but watch as a frenzied horse and windswept knight came bolting past the tree-line, galloping over a fallen trunk. They charged through the field, rider attempting to reign in his frightened animal. The man's efforts were for naught; despite his apparent skill his beast still reared. Its brutal strength left the rider shaken, fighting to stay upright. The horse would not be appeased and the knight's stubborn will was not enough to stop it from throwing him. _

_Rider met unforgiving earth in what appeared to be a hard crash, his horse continuing to thrash and fight madly against a foe which quite clearly didn't exist. Somehow, the knight was fortunate enough not be trampled by his steed in its rush to flee, but remained motionless for too long. Draco felt as if he should be doing something to help, but he didn't know if he should. Was the man actually hurt? Was it safe to move and check? Could he even help? He thought the safest solution might be to try to find answers from afar. He tried to raise his voice, to call out to the stranger, but his mouth was suddenly dry. His tongue felt of sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. He could make no sound. _

_Before he could become too distressed over his state of silence, he was nearly frightened out of his skin by a woman coming out of the stone beside him. She must have been a spirit, a nymph, or some beauty of the forest. With a clear sense of purpose, she ran to the fallen rider, concern threading her every gesture. She fell to her knees by his side, and Draco almost felt he should look away. The moment when man and woman locked gazes was intensely powerful and terribly private. He felt the light grow brighter, the world around him humming as they looked into each other's' eyes. Even a blind man would have been able to testify that this was love at first sight, in its purest form. _

_The maiden gently cradled the knight's head against her knee, begging her newfound champion not to move just yet. There the two remained engrossed in what limited conversation and injured, love-struck man could give. Draco averted his eyes to try to give them some modicum of privacy, uncomfortable with the sheer intimacy in their expressions. He turned away only to spot the troublesome horse that had started all this. It had apparently run its terrified self out, and was chewing grass contentedly within shouting distance of the new couple. He glared at it, for a moment sympathetic to the horseman's plight. It didn't mind his scathing glower, only turned the other way to grab a bit of greener grass, showing off the Malfoy crest proudly displayed on its halter. _

_He had no idea what such a thing would be doing, glinting from the flank of a stranger's horse. Had the man stolen from his family? Curiosity quickly outweighed his confusion and he eased himself away from rock. Draco took a step toward the horse and his family's crest, managed one sure foot forward, and fell. The earth crumbled around him, senses simmering down to nothing—for everything ended full circle once again. _

_Draco stared into a black abyss. _


	6. Simplify

The door rattled on its hinges, the victim of undignified treatment. Draco's attempt to close the door to his room was violent enough to qualify as a fruitless venture to shut out all of Hogwarts for his entire existence. His actions were unintentionally rough and crude. If the exhaustion wasn't placing such a heavy burden on him he would have scolded himself for how unrefined he was behaving. The again how he entered a room was the least of his concerns at the moment. Instead, he forced himself to continue the direct path to his beckoning bed. The entire process was an exercise of mental fortitude as his knees begged to buckle. Regardless of how tempting it was to remain on the cold stone of the Head Boy dormitory, habit kept him from acquiescing to a decision he would have regretted immensely tomorrow morning. Back pains were the usual consequence of stone-floor-naps.

He was still shaking violently with the after effects of his stomach's violent attempt to get rid of everything he'd eaten in the last few days. His head was buzzing, beast within him uneasy. Today's events had been nothing short of sheer hell. Draco collapsed into the haven of his sheets in his now tattered uniform. That was an annoyance that managed to break through his exhaustion-inspired apathy. It was an irksome misfortune. Not even the strongest magic in the world could salvage the ruined clothes. He would have removed the blasted thing if he'd had even a trickle of energy left, but as it was, his eyes rolled back in head and Draco truly _fell_ asleep.

Tranquil slumber was not what greeted him once he descended into the subconscious world. It was happening again. The same cursed bloody dream he dreaded every night. Before him the visions playing surpassed the bounds of his confusion. The scenes he saw every night were more disjointed than a Divination class taught by Luna Lovegood. For most of his life, Draco had felt a part of his usual dreams, and had at least been able to follow the plot. _This_ reoccurring dream was practically alien in comparison. Draco swore someone had ripped parts forcefully from his mind mere seconds before it was supposed to play out. He was left with fragments—bollocks they were fragments of remnants at best! The scenes lucky enough to survive the phantom director's cut and make it into his dream were flashy and fuzzy, like an old Muggle movie improperly shown. Worse still, the grainy images played out in complete silence. Although, he entertained the notion that the constant pressure in his head, lovingly gifted by his newfound inheritance, could be entirely to blame for that. His ears sometimes rung at such an excruciating decibel even when he was waking, that he felt like if his precious ear drums would simply give way.

However, Draco was pretty convinced that his ears were not the cause of the silence in his dreams. These productions his mind had created for him every night were unlike anything he had ever seen. The scenes therein did not seem to connect in any logical way, but every one of them had the Malfoy Crest hidden somewhere within. The mark was familiar enough that he could recognize it anywhere, but it didn't make any sense. He'd not seen it on the same object twice so far. Once it appeared on the hilt of a sword, once it was the image dancing in wreathing flame, the signet on a horse's reigns, the seal of a letter, a brand on a ring and a multitude of other things that left Draco feeling like he must be going mad. And each time the dream would end with Draco looking down upon his own body and seeing the Malfoy crest burning on his chest, as if the flaming pattern had started within and burst through his skin in a ghoulish vision.

Each time he woke he could barely get his lungs to function. This time had been even worse than usual. His throat was so raw that each gasp for air sounded like a dreadful whimper. He may have retired early but he remained utterly exhausted. He had barely slept for a few hours. Given darkness in his bedroom, it was the dead of night. Draco cradled his pounding head. The motion gave him a little solace, but unfortunately the view of his own chest reminded him of his state of attire. His thoughts were flooded with memories. Memories that made him choke once again on the acid that remained in his stomach.

He knew that returning to Hogwarts would be a difficult burden. It was obvious that many would be furious with his return because of his previous transgressions. He had hoped the hatred and fear every house felt about him, coupled with his Draught of Peace regime would keep the females of Hogwarts ignorant of his weakened Veela's pheromones. Oh, how naïve he was. It did not matter what his sins were. It did not matter that the Draught of Peace had altered him from debonair Slytherin prince to death warmed over. It did not matter that he had no inclination to woo any witch there. The females of Hogwarts were apparently extremely _affected_ by his presence. Unfortunately, due to his heightened senses he did not have the luxury of ignoring their lurid stares.

No, Draco's new Veela prowess made him well aware of how he affected them. Thes days if he so much as glanced into a girl's eyes, he could see all the wickedly wanton fantasies she had playing out in her thoughts. Of course, he was the leading man in all of these productions. He wasn't sure if it was his own traitorous imagination or a Veela power. Advanced sexual legilimency wasn't in the books as a power, but Draco was positive any Veelas would have felt the need to save the researcher the embarrassment on this one. At the very least he knew his imagination was not twisted enough to be so vindictive as to hurt himself in such a manner. In any case, to deal with this repetitive problem Draco had turned to increasing the dosage of his Draught of Peace. He wasn't proud of his decision to take more of the potion, but the idea of being numb to the girls' desires was too tempting to resist.

One thing led to another, Draco's slight increase in his chosen remedy became a not-so-slight one. Now, just a few weeks after he'd come back to this blasted castle, he was already far past any kind of dosage that could be called healthy. At first it had worked wonders; however, it had quickly failed him. He took more and more, and the more he took the more his Veela nature, his mind, and his body fought each other. It was a struggle that wore heavily on him. He had been so caught up in his internal war that he had been unprepared for the incident in his House's Common Room earlier.

As Head Boy it is his responsibility to help the other students. It had come to his attention that a few of them were struggling. He had planned to help some third years with a particularly difficult Charms examination coming up. Of course, he wasn't the best humanitarian. Hell, he wasn't even always a decent human being, but he took his responsibilities seriously. He should have known better than try to help them on a Friday afternoon, but they asked him. There wasn't much to do any more in Hogwarts with the new additions to security. Every night all the dormitories magically sealed the students in. Some of them had wanted some help before the lockdown went into effect. So down to the dungeons he went, ready to explain the material they should already have learned. Although, Draco was not the most tender-hearted individual he was very good with tutoring people in a non-threating manner.

The small group was making progress. However, Draco committed a grave mistake; he forgot about his allure. His dependence on the Draught had given him hot-flashes—his body's attempt to sweat the intruding chemical out. Thus, he was overheated even in the drafty dungeons. Not thinking of anything other than the unnatural heat, he loosened and tossed his tie on the table, turning back to helping the younger students. His undivided attention had been on his fledgling peers so he hadn't realized that the girls were drawing closer to him.

Apparently, Pansy saw this as an opportunity to proposition Draco. She had probably thought up a horrendous line about relieving his tension or something. Unfortunately, when her finger touched him, the girl was overcome by his veela hormones and consumed by lust. She had launched herself at him. Her tactics were bent only toward achieving the most primal of goals. She had wanted to seduce him—right then and there—regardless of who bore witness. She didn't care about the reactions of their peers. Even if she had had many a partner in her time, Pansy always retained some decorum and waited for a man's company in privacy. She was acting more desperate and unreasoningly than he'd ever known her to. But that wasn't what frightened him. Draco was more upset that she didn't seem to care how he felt about any of it. All he could feel through the entire ordeal was sharp pain.

His friend and former lover was inflicting torture on him with her unwanted mouth, crude nails, and vindictive teeth. It was a struggle to keep the nausea in check. She clawed at him like a beast tearing his shirt in her haste. His Veela was disgusted. Pansy was not his mate. He needed only his mate. He was his mate's alone and his mate was his alone. Pansy had no claim or right to touch him in any way. He had finally listened to his instincts, and forcibly threw Pansy off of him. Thankfully, she landed on one of the most comfortable couches, so only her feminine pride was truly injured. They were both lucky. He realized in his urgency that if she had landed wrong, she might have had to spend a weekend in the ward.

Draco hadn't been able to remain in the room after that episode. He'd barely made it outside the Common Room before he lost all the possessions his stomach had collected throughout the day. Bile was not even the worse taste in his mouth at that moment. His tongue felt it had been rubbed raw. What with the excruciating amount of pain his respiratory system was in, Pansy might as well have dumped pins down his throat. He fought his way back to the security of the Head Boy room, where no one could see him… where no whisper or thought could follow him. There he remained, trying to bury his hurt in exhausted sleep, until his ill-fated awakening earlier.

Draco was sure he had missed dinner that evening, choosing instead to cloister himself in his room. He did not much care. The need for food seemed trivial with his flesh still stinging from the other girl's touch. His clothes had been soaked in Pansy's horrid scent, and it was completely nauseating. Now, without the extreme weariness to numb him to it, the touch of those clothes were like the rake of claws against his skin; as if his Veela were fighting to tear the offending garments off. It was a miracle he'd been able to pass out at all with her poison so close for so long. It was a mark of exactly how drained he had been.

He fancied himself a strong man, but this torture he could not endure any longer. He hauled himself off of his tainted linens, and stood again. However, his usually confident stride was reduced to a humble wobble as he made his way to his private bathroom. He had denied his Veela for too long. In this weakened state it was a struggle just to get his muscles to function.

Once he'd made it to his destination, Draco stripped away the tormenting rags with a hiss. The relief was instant and palpable the moment he removed those blasted clothes, despite the pain that still threaded his being. He wished the cursed fabric would burn, so he might never be reminded of the incident with Pansy. If Draco had cared enough to notice, he would have seen them slowly shrivel to ashes, barely smoking upon the marble floor. But he did not bear witness to the result of his wishes. No, his mind was far too absorbed with the journey to the shower.

He hadn't even properly shut the door before he began the process of scrubbing his skin raw. This was his attempt to purify himself. This was more than a simple want to erase residual dirt and scent. It had become absolutely essential that all traces from this ill-gotten episode left his body and surged down the drain. Draco's figure quickly transformed under the boiling hot water and his harsh ministrations to a garish shade of red, a far cry from his traditional pristine porcelain. He was not sure how long he spent under scalding water, but it was long enough for the clothes forgotten on the floor to magically turn to ash and disappear into the night, never to be remembered by Draco again.

When he could take no more, he turned off the blasting water and leaned against the warmed white ceramic tiles. He gulped at the steamy air. As the vapor entered him it soothed his tender throat and lungs. Soon the haze of steam dissipated, allowing him to see the small pool of water outside the floor of the shower, left by his carelessness. Draco croaked, an attempt at a huff of amusement at the chaos that seemed to follow him. He carefully sidestepped the mess. He grabbed a dark green towel, and wrapped it securely about his waist. He didn't really care to correctly dry himself off when he was as sore as he felt presently.

Out of habit, he went over to his sink where a small row of Draught of Peace vials were lined up, seeming to jeer at him in the light. It was proof of how dependent he had become now. Draco forcibly grabbed the one nearest him. Usually, he could overcome the disgust he felt for himself for ingesting the potion, but not this day. There was too much hatred bubbling forth in his heart to discount his self-derision. Before he tipped the bottle's contents down his throat, he caught his reflection in the mirror. He no longer recognized himself; he was a ghoulish visage of his former self. What solace had he ever received from this brew? It became apparent to Draco in that moment that he had been contaminating himself in an attempt to keep his Veela condition a secret.

Why?

Secrecy surely hadn't been a blasted benefit. He was miserable every single day. This charade was worthless. It hadn't been able aid him in keeping the girls from reacting to him. It didn't keep their fantasies secret. It didn't keep Pansy rational. No, her attempt to shag him for all to bear witness showed how little this vial did to secure him. All he had wanted was a token of protection, was that too much to ask for? Instead, the Draught of Peace was obliterating the man he was. All it was doing was keeping him stagnant in his development. How much more would he inflict on his body, mind, and spirit. How much weaker did he have to become?

_Weakness is unacceptable_.

That drivel had been pounded into his skull so soundly that he was sure it was etched on the bone itself. Draco could not even fathom a guess at how often he had heard this statement in his life growing up. The weak do not survive wars. The weak do not prosper. The weak are disgraceful. The weak are useless. The weak are doomed. He never wanted to be weak, and Merlin help him he would not allow this weakness to flourish now. He had obeyed. He had followed everyone else's instructions on how to be a man, a wizard, an heir, and now a Veela. Their directives were wrong. He would not be limited by their flawed advice any longer. This potion would never weaken him again.

He smashed the vial violently against the mirror. The resulting sound was so fulfilling, he couldn't help but smirk at the lilac mosaic of shards and ruined potion before him. What a beautiful piece of destruction. He was done with this façade, and that knowledge gave him unparalleled satisfaction. He should have been learning how to control his power, but he had drugged himself past any hope of finding his mate instead. He had been ridiculously arrogant to expect that he would be fortunate and find her quickly. How unrealistic had it been to dream for her to be in Hogwarts, and to fall at his feet willingly. How was he supposed to have his mate accept him when he had refused to accept who and what he was himself? Denying his nature was no longer an option. Draco and the Veela were one; he could no longer afford to hold those pieces of his true self separate.

**As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness~ Henry David Thoreau**

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><p>First, I humbly ask for your forgiveness. Life can get complicated and busy. Certain unexpected detours in the road of life has made me shove this story off my creative backburner … to the point it was hiding in a turned off oven for months. I will try to salvage this for you guys. Seeing people still add alerts for this has shamed me into getting my fingers typing and back into the ferret's mind. To answer some questions I have been receiving…<p>

How often there will be updates? I cannot say. We will just have to see how it goes together. I am just trying to figure out what I was thinking four months ago.

Will there be chapters in Hermione's perspective? I am not sure. At the moment none of my notes has a switch in pov. It would have to be something important enough to warrant a change in perspective, I think.

Will this be canon? Short answer it's a Draco/Hermione piece...not really…. My goal is to respect the novels. Thereby, my version of respecting the original piece dictates that the pace will be slower. Mister Malfoy has to work for Miss. Granger's affections. With that in mind, please note that this is NOT the summary of this fan fiction …

_"Granger, I am here now! And I am the Slytherin Sex God and also I am a Veela?" Draco seductively looks at our favorite bookworm._

_"Oh Mister Malfoy! Ohh! Let's do it!" Hermione wails as she clings to Draco's shoulders._

_"Yes, and I will keep my Slytherin tie on" Draco smirks in the audience's direction as Hermione gaze into his seductive silver blue orbs._

_Meanwhile on the internet: bodices were ripping and men were turning gay._

_It was amazing for everyone but Ron Weasley… the end._

If that is what you are looking I am sorry but that is not this story. I am not going to give you an OH Mister Malfoy. I know it is so tempting because we are talking about Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. But if you are willing to go on this journey hopefully you will be entertained.

Second, thank you once again for reading the insanity I elect to put up here. It truly does mean a lot.

Stephy 33, Talis Ruadair, MK08, Lolwut, Cheryl Grant, Pheonixfeather05, oscarg, and StrawberryPeaches- thank you for going out of your way to review.

PS it makes me so happy to see people from different countries reviewing my little story. It makes me do a victory dance in my socks in the kitchen… not the best idea ever but it sure made my Beta laugh.


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